


damned if i'll yield at the end of a chase

by jelenedra



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, Investigations, Suspicions, Team Dynamics, Teamwork, also murder and suchlike, discussion of medical procedures, fairly standard hannibal warnings, post season one, spoilers up to Savoureux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jelenedra/pseuds/jelenedra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katz smells a rat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	damned if i'll yield at the end of a chase

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lincesque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincesque/gifts).



> Prompt: "Happiness! Fluff! First time! But uh. Considering this is Hannibal. I will take what I can get ahfoajfd xD;; OR LIKE. Forensics trio being BAMFs because they are my favourite trio forever in the show \o/ "
> 
> I'M SO SORRY LINCESQUE THIS IS THE BEST I COULD DO

In law enforcement, it's common knowledge that the only reasonable way to deal with certain situations is to get blindingly, stupendously, totally drunk. It hasn't really come up before, but Beverly's pretty sure finding out one of your coworkers might be a serial killer is one of them.

Sadly, Will's escape to Minnesota means they're all on high alert and unable to give their livers the abuse they deserve. So after word comes in that he's been shot, apprehended, and placed in an induced coma, as soon as she thinks Jack will overlook their absence, Beverly rounds up the entire forensics staff and marches the whole sorry lot down to Roman's.

The bar is packed. FBI gossip moves as fast as a speeding mack truck, and has the precision of brain surgery performed with a speeding mack truck. Within five minutes Beverly is asked if it's true that Will is dead; that he was involved in a sex scandal; that he's fled to Cuba to sell state secrets to the communists. She muscles her way to the bar and asks for enough tequila to make her forget the way Will shook and sweated and bared his teeth as she scraped blood from under his fingernails.

* * *

Beverly wakes up face down on her own bed, fully clothed except for her shoes and one sock. She has a truly astounding headache and her mouth is full of cat hair.

She's late to work, but she gets some consolation from watching Brian and Jimmy stagger in even later. It's not like Jack's around to scold them. Brian mocks her, of course; he can mimic her voice almost perfectly, which is hilariously eerie, but he’s too hungover to come up with anything remotely resembling a decent comeback. Beverly watches from a lofty perch atop a gallon of black coffee and a fistful of aspirin until he’s started to repeat himself, and then slides over a six inch stack of paperwork and smiles at his groans.

* * *

"Absolutely not. The case is _closed_ , Beverly."

"Will doesn't think he did it, Jack," Beverly says. "You know how bad his self esteem is. You could tell him he was responsible for the Rwandan genocide and he'd buy it, but he's not buying this."

"Will has anti NMDA receptor encephalitis. The mental effects are so severe that people used to think it was demonic possession—"

"Memory loss. Slurred speech. Seizures. You saw Cassie Boyle's body, Jack, it was a sophisticated, precise kill. You really think he would've been together enough to pull something like that off? He could barely walk when Georgia—"

"I've consulted with psychiatrists, and they believe it's possible," Jack says. "I understand where you're coming from, Beverly. None of us want to believe Will is guilty, but the evidence all points to him."

"What if the evidence is incomplete, Jack? What if there's something we missed?" 

"Doctor Katz," Jack says, the pity in his voice unbearable, "there is nothing more to be done."

Beverly doesn't know how to make him see, except to grit her teeth and choke out "Please, sir."

He stares at her for a long moment and sighs heavily. "You can investigate if you want, as long as it doesn't interfere with your work. But there's nothing left to find."

* * *

"Jimmy, doesn't it bug you that we saw the guy every day for like a year without him giving the game away even once?"

"It does."

"Eh, I don't know..."

"Look at it this way—if we exonerate him, he will _never_ live it down."

"...sold."

Compared to convincing Jack, getting Brian and Jimmy on side is a breeze.

* * *

They plan to start one they're caught up on paperwork, but then the Chesapeake Ripper starts up another cycle and they're all scrambling to find that one clue, that one scrap of evidence that might save the next victim. They find nothing, of courses, but Jimmy spends a solid week up to his elbows in eviscerated chest cavities while Brian and Beverly comb the crime scenes, and when the third body drops Jack shakes his head at them and puts a moratorium on any non-essential tasks, starting on Monday. 

"So," says Beverly, surrounded by body parts and filled with the kind of cold rage that only the worst of humanity can bring out in her, "anybody got plans for the weekend?"

* * *

Jimmy's wife does something secretive and terrifying for the CIA, so she is, from all reports, very understanding when Jimmy tells her he'll be locking himself in the lab for 48 hours straight. Brian has developed a surprising case of live-in boyfriend—surprising less because all his previous partners were women, but because Beverly has never met anyone as wildly terrified of commitment as Brian Zeller before, and cannot imagine what it must have taken to get him to take that step. He jokes about the true test of a relationship as he drops an overnight bag onto the counter. 

Beverly has no one to disappoint but her mother, who makes her disapproval very clear when she calls to cancel their lunch date. 

At 12:01 on Saturday morning, the only lights on in the building are theirs. They begin.

* * *

They start by checking the roster. 

It's Jimmy's idea, and not a bad one. They found no evidence at any of the bodies, not hair, nor fingerprints, nor even flakes of skin; that takes know-how, and who would know better than a CSI? Beverly takes the FBI staff listing while Jimmy and Brian painstakingly comb through police and paramedics, cross-referencing times of death with recorded deployments, requested leave, credit card purchases, and activity on Facebook or Twitter. It takes them hours, and in the end they have very little to show for it.

Beverly wheels in a whiteboard pilfered from a classroom and writes out their findings. "Okay. Aside from us, Will, Jack, and Murphy from Ballistics, we have no record of anyone who could have been at every crime scene on the kind of schedule we're talking about." 

"Murphy's on hemodialysis," Brian says. "Whenever she’s away from home for more than a day she needs to check into a clinic or hospital to get it done."

“And her medical records don’t indicate any out of state clinic visits in the times we’re looking at. Okay.” Beverly rubs Murphy’s name off the board. “To narrow it down further, I know it wasn’t me, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t you guys.”

“Quite apart from our general character, none of us would have the _time_ ,” Jimmy said. “We’re all logging 90 hour work weeks.”

“Right.” Beverly rubs off their names. “Which leaves Jack and Will.”

“You really think it could be Jack?” Brian points his marker at the board. “I mean, with his wife and all…”

“If Jack turned out to be a serial killer, the entire department would be out of a job,” Jimmy says. “Based on that alone, I’m pretty comfortable excluding him.”

Beverly hesitates for a long moment, then wipes his name off. “Well, we’re back to where we started. It’s either a pro who was never at any of the crime scenes, or a really bright civilian.” 

“We really used those six hours well,” Brian grouses. “What now? Door to door interviews?”

“How about I go on a breakfast run,” says Jimmy, “and you two start pulling crime scene photos.”

* * *

The crime scene photos don’t yield anything new. Nor does poring over the lab results or witness statements or local police reports. Beverly even digs into Abigail’s psych records, to no avail. At noon, Brian goes on a lunch, and six hours after that, when they still haven’t found what they need, Beverly takes her purse and her laptop and goes out to get dinner. 

Indian is the unanimous choice, but their usual place is overcrowded and understaffed. Beverly places an order and goes to the coffee shop next door to wait, sucking down yet another espresso. She takes advantage of the free wifi to check her emails.

“Beverly?”

Beverly twitches hard enough to slam her laptop shut. “ _Jesus._ ”

“Sorry.” Alana’s smile is a worn and sagging around the edges. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s cool, I’m wired as hell anyway.” Beverly eyes Alana. “Come, sit down, talk to me. How are you coping?”

“As well as can be expected, given the circumstances.” Alana sits, leans her elbows on the table and her forehead on her hands. “It’s been…”

Beverly gives her a minute to complete the sentence, but nothing comes out. “Yeah,” she says. “It’s been.”

“I heard the forensics department was going to look over the evidence.” Alana looks up. “Was that true, or…?”

“If by ‘the forensics department’ you mean me, Brian, and Jimmy, and if by ‘look over the evidence’ you mean lock ourselves in the lab for the entire 48 hours we’ve been allotted, then yes, yes we are.” Beverly drums her fingernails against the countertop. “On that note, was there anyone you know who was close to Will, maybe? Anyone who could tell us more?”

Alana hesitates, then shakes her head. “He was seeing a psychiatrist, but other than that… no, not really. He was always… very private.”

Beverly nods, patting herself down for her notebook and pens. It takes her a solid two minutes to realise she left them in her lab coat, and her lab coat in the lab. “Hang on, lemme just—do you have a pen?” 

Alana does not, so Beverly opens her laptop and has to wait for it to boot up. Her leg is jittering under the table. “Uh, you said—a psychiatrist? What was the name? I mean, it may just confirm what we kind of already knew, but if we could maybe see the records, it might…”

“Yeah, no, of course. Hannibal Lecter. His main office is up in Baltimore.” Alana spells the name for her. “He supervised my doctoral thesis. He’s very competent. A little unconventional, maybe.” 

“Aren’t we all?” Beverly types the name into a blank Word document, then into Google. She gets a couple of articles on Google Scholar, an out-of-date university staff profile, an American Psychiatrist Association listing. Nothing useful, but maybe Jimmy can dig something up. “He was the guy who called us in after Abigail’s death, right? When did Will start seeing him?”

Alana frowns. “A week before he shot Hobbs, give or take a few days. Why?” 

“Just wondering. Thanks, Alana.”

Alana nods tiredly. Beverly closes her laptop and searches for something to say that won’t lead into _sorry the guy you were flirting with got arrested on five counts of murder._

In the end, she goes with, “I’d better get back to it.” She slides her laptop away and stands up, rests a hand awkwardly on Alana’s shoulder. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Yeah.” Alana rises too, and Beverly allows her to do the weird little hug-and-air-kiss thing white girls always seem to do. “You too.”

Beverly’s at her car before she realises she forgot to pick up her order. She curses and goes back. Alana, for better or worse, is long gone.

* * *

Beverly occupies herself writing up notes on each of the deaths while Jimmy hunts for information on Lecter. 

“Grew up in the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic, parents were gulag’d when he and his sister were kids. Looks like the sister died some time after that, influenza. Taken in by his aunt and uncle, came to America to study at John Hopkins on a scholarship, naturalised while he was there… went from surgery to psychiatry around fifteen years ago. The only thing on his record are really minor. Parking fines and speeding tickets.” Jimmy shakes his head. “He was questioned in relation to a disappearance when he was young—”

“Wait up, what?” Brian clatters over to stare at the computer screen, then scowls. “Damn.”

“Tell me,” Beverly says. 

“Local butcher disappeared. Lecter had been seen arguing with him earlier that day, but nothing was ever proven, and this was before the dissolution of the USSR, so he could have been disappeared by the state.”

“Fuck balls.” Beverly glances at the clock. It’s midnight. Her hands are trembling a little, so she gets herself another coffee. “So much for that. Can we at least get into his records, or something?”

“Not without a subpoena. I’ve got a witness statement from him, from when Will was arrested, but nothing we didn’t already know.” Jimmy sighs and drops his head onto his folded arms.

Beverly takes her espresso like a shot and digs her knuckles into her eyes. “We have to find—something, something that unites them—”

“What if it's not a pattern?”

Beverly blinks at Brian. “What?”

“We're looking for a way to tie this all to one guy. What if it's not one guy?”

Jimmy raises his head and frowns. “What brought this on?”

“The first girl. Cassie Boyle. Her lungs were removed and she was put on display.” Brian waves expansively at the board. “Remind you of anyone else?”

Beverly cracks her neck, turning the idea over. “The Ripper.”

“Exactly.”

“Can't have been,” Jimmy says sleepily. Beverly makes a second cup of coffee for him. “He kills in threes.”

“Not always. We still haven't finished untangling what was him from that time with the organ thief.” Brian's pacing, now, back and forth, hands swaying through the air. “What if he killed Cassie Boyle, and then—I don't know—maybe Nick Boyle really did kill Marissa Schurr, maybe he mistook her for Abigail, like a vengeance thing—then Abigail kills Nick Boyle in self-defence when he tries to correct his mistake—then Georgia Madchen kills Donald Sutcliffe, and... and... shit.”

Beverly watches her own hands tremble. She feels like she hasn't slept in years.

“Georgia Madchen's death still could've been an accident or a suicide,” Jimmy says. “But that still leaves Abigail.”

“Shit shit shit.” Brian sits down.

“It's a good theory,” Beverly offers. “There's what, sixteen thousand murders per year in the US? It's not a stretch to think there could be six unrelated murders across three states in a year.”

“But impossible to prove or disprove, in the absence of DNA or a confession,” Jimmy points out. He has to stop to yawn, and then wait for Beverly and Brian to stop yawning, before he continues. “Also it doesn't explain how Will ended up with pieces of five victims in his house. He can't have been taking them from crime scenes. Cassie Boyle didn't have any lung tissue left when we got there.”

“And Georgia's hair was destroyed in the fire,” Beverly says. “Shit.”

“Shit,” Brian agrees. “Never mind.”

* * *

Jimmy’s asleep when 6AM rolls around, so Brian takes the breakfast run. Beverly finds herself scrolling through old TattleCrime articles.

Lounds has an awful lot of crime scene photos. Beverly has no idea why local PD are so slack about keeping her away. They all know what to look for, a tiny white girl with hair like a house fire and a camera should not be difficult to spot, and yet. There are a lot of photos.

Beverly drinks more coffee, and does a search for _Graham_. She scrolls to the very first hit. 

It’s the Stammets case, the mushroom farmer. Beverly always liked mushrooms. When she was six or seven, one of her uncles gave her a book about fungi, filled with beautiful high-resolution close-up shots of slime mold and lichen and puffballs, and for about a year after that, the day after every rainfall, Beverly’s mother would take her walking to spot new types of mushroom coming up. 

Beverly shakes herself briskly and focuses on the article. Nothing helpful there.

The next one in the list is about the Hobbs case, from the day Abigail went back to her house with Will and Alana to look at the crime scene. More of the standard Lounds sensationalism in the articles, but the pictures… something’s bugging her about them. She can see Will and Abigail, framed against the Hobbs’ house’s pale stone walls, and then someone else, someone at the edge of the picture, someone in a plaid suit with sleek dark hair. Their face is mostly turned away but she can see the edge of a sharp nose and wide mouth, somehow familiar.

“Hey Jimmy.” No response. “Jimmy?” When she turns around she sees him drooling onto his own sleeve. She makes some more coffee and takes a cup over to him. The scent seems to rouse him; he mumbles a thank you and slurps it down. When he’s a little more awake, she nudges him. “Hey, Jimmy, can you find me a picture of that Lecter guy? In profile, if there is one.”

Jimmy slides over to the computer and starts clicking away. “Nothing in profile, is three-quarter okay?”

“Three-quarter’s just fine. Print it out for me, yeah?” 

The next article is from the next day, after Marissa Schurr’s body had been found, and there’s that same man—dark brown suit, dark hair, and just enough of his face to make out strong cheekbones and slightly sunken eyes. 

Jimmy passes her the photograph of Lecter, and she holds it up for comparison. Then she explodes.

“Who the fuck let a civilian psychiatrist into an _active crime scene!_ ”

“Bev—”

“He went with Abigail to Minnesota! _He wasn’t even treating her!_ ”

“BEV,” Jimmy says, louder, “calm down. Is he in any other photos?”

Brian comes back just as Beverly’s printing her finds. 

“Even when he wasn’t at crime scenes, there’s a shitload of photos of him coming in and out of Quantico,” she says. “This is—he has no clearance! A couple times he logged in as a visitor but, you know, who knows what Will was telling him? And he was a surgeon, for fuck’s sake!”

“Slow down,” Brian says. “Who are you even talking about?”

“ _Lecter!_ ”

“Beverly,” Jimmy says, “Eat something. Have some more coffee. If he’s up to no good, he’s been at it for a long time now. Twenty minutes won’t make the difference.”

Beverly closes her eyes and breathes deeply, lets her anger trail away. “Okay. Yes. Fine. Catch Brian up.”

She goes to the bathroom, splashes water on her face, combs her hair. Brian brought doughnuts for breakfast, and she eats about six while Jimmy runs him through what she found. 

“He fits the profile,” she says finally. “Every profile. Will’s, and Jack’s, and even the one Miriam Lass drew up. Surgical. White male, forties, but not American. Calm, methodical, completely above suspicion.”

“What are you talking about?” Brian asks. 

She points at him. “You were right. Cassie Boyle was killed by the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Beverly’s never heard a room go silent in quite this way before.

“You’re suggesting,” Jimmy says slowly, “that Lecter is the Ripper.”

Beverly opens her mouth, closes it, opens again. “I… look, I realise this sounds ridiculous.”

“It sounds like something Will would say,” Brian says. He pauses, then admits, “Which means it might actually be right, but… seriously?” 

“I just—look.” Beverly points at the whiteboard. “Will started seeing him right during the Hobbs case, right after Elise Nichols was found. Lecter was with him _right before Cassie Boyle was found_. Lecter was with him when when he was searching for Hobbs, and— _by his own admission_ —they were separated for a couple of minutes while Will was going through those employment records. If Will had the opportunity to make a phone call, so did Lecter. And then, Lecter went with Will to the Hobbs’ house. Maybe he wanted to see what he’d done.”

“He saved Abigail’s life,” Jimmy says. 

“But Will was watching.” Brian scowls. “And then later—he’s just conveniently at the Hobbs’ house when Marissa Schurr disappears, and again when we’re pretty sure Nick Boyle died. Abigail was already accomplice to one killer, why not a second one?”

Jimmy pipes in with, “The witness statement says he referred Will to Sutcliffe, and if he was Will’s psychiatrist he certainly knew about Georgia Madchen. Maybe she saw him killing Sutcliffe, but he knew she couldn’t see his face?”

“And just to be sure, he slipped her that comb,” Brian says.

“Then he takes out Abigail, to make sure there’s no loose ends, waits for Will to have a fit, and then… I have no idea how Will puked up an ear, but maybe he just planted it in the sink and waited for Will to notice?” Beverly frowns. “It’s not a perfect theory, but it’s a pattern.”

“He’s the only common denominator, aside from the people we already dismissed,” Jimmy says. “Maybe he got involved with the FBI specifically to see where we were at with the Ripper case.”

“He was even there when we arrested Devon Silvestri,” Brian says. “And he just so happened to get involved with Tobias Budge. It’d be one thing if he worked for us, but for a civi that’s a _hell_ of a pattern.”

“And not actually something we can do anything with,” Jimmy points out. “Without hard evidence there’s no way we can get a warrant.”

“Yeah, not unless he’s dumb enough to let someone overhear his victims screaming.” Beverly sighs.

They’re all silent for a long time, eating their breakfast and drinking down more coffee. Beverly’s pretty sure that she must be immune to caffeine poisoning, because if she wasn’t she’d surely be dead by now. 

Eventually, Brian says, “Where do you think we’d find the evidence?”

“His home, probably. I looked up the address.” Beverly waves a hand at the board. “Big house, big yard, big old-style cellar, in a white-collar neighbourhood where people keep to themselves.”

“Couldn’t we just… make a call?”

“You really think any of us could do that without getting caught?” Beverly shakes her head. “If we got busted it’d compromise the whole investigation. Best we can do is give what we have to Jack on Monday morning and see how we go.”

“Fuck,” Brian says.

“Fuck,” Jimmy agrees. “Well, at least we can get some sleep now.”

* * *

Beverly goes home, and goes to bed, and dreams of flights of ravens rising from a field.

* * *

She and Brian and Jimmy all arrive at the same time on Monday morning, There isn’t much to do, aside from cleaning up the mess they made and returning the white board. Beverly can’t actually remember which classroom she took it out of, so she leaves it in a hallway and hopes for the best. 

Beverly is nominated as the sacrificial lamb in a two-to-one vote. She takes the folder and goes to Jack’s office without complaint. 

Jack is filling in paperwork when she gets there, but nods at her when she knocks on his open door. She closes it behind her and drops into a seat in front of his desk. It’s almost twenty minutes before he finally gestures at her to begin.

“Sir,” she says, and Jack’s head snaps up. “In accordance with your instructions to cease all investigation of the Graham case until Monday, Doctor Zeller, Doctor Price, and I finished our work over the weekend.” She sets the file on the desk and slides it towards him. “This is our report. Based on our findings, we strongly recommend naming Doctor Hannibal Lecter as a suspect.”

Jack stares at her for a second, then laughs. “Right. Sure. What did you really find?”

“Read the report, sir. I—” She falls silent when Jack’s phone rings. 

“Crawford.” He’s silent for a long moment, listening. “I understand. We’re on our way.” He hangs up and looks at her intently. “That was Baltimore PD.”

Beverly tilts her head slightly. “Yes?”

“They received a call reporting a domestic disturbance at Doctor Lecter’s house. They’ve asked us to send out a team to investigate.”

Beverly shakes her head. “I… Jack, I—”

“Later.” Jack gets to his feet, and Beverly does the same. “We’ll investigate. But if I find out you’ve accused an innocent man, or that you’ve jeopardised a murder investigation—”

“Jack, it wasn’t us. I swear.” She’s not so sure, though—Brian would definitely pull this kind of shit if he thought he could get away with it.

“Good.” Jack cracks his knuckles. “Get your team together. Be ready to leave in ten minutes.”

* * *

The basement isn’t really anything Beverly hasn’t seen before.

She passed one of the Baltimore cops sitting outside, having retched violently onto the manicured lawn, and another two trembling and pale, but honestly, they’re just bodies. So they’ve been butchered, so what? At least they aren’t stacked into a totem pole, or dangling in pieces from trees. It doesn’t even smell that bad. Most of it was in fridges or freezers, and the cellar is dark and cool enough that the little that wasn’t hadn’t a chance to rot.

The look on Jack’s face suggests it might be something about the person most likely responsible for these particular bodies. 

Lecter himself is nowhere to be found, of course, but there’s enough fingerprints and hair around to put him away forever, assuming it belongs to him. Jack has arranged for police to check his office and a couple of other places he might be found, but Beverly doesn’t have a great deal of faith in that; surely, if Lecter was so careful about everything else, he’d have safeguards in place for the day the law inevitably came to his door. 

Once they’ve taken the place apart and swept the house for anything else suspicion—Beverly does not envy whichever peon ends up analysing every piece of meat in the kitchen fridge upstairs—Jack lets them leave, still pale and shaken. Beverly and Brian surreptitiously high five as soon as they’re around the corner. 

“I assume this was your doing,” Beverly says. Brian shrugs. 

“We just found the Chesapeake Ripper, and we did it _without_ Graham’s special empathy powers. Are you going to make it a thing?”

“Hell no. Just tell me you were bright enough to use a burner phone.”

“Please,” Brian says. Then, in his creepy imitation of her, “Didn’t even use my own voice.” 

Beverly groans and slaps him upside the head.

* * *

Will is completely still and peaceful when she arrives. He could be sleeping, except for the monitors tracking his heart beat and the plastic tube in his throat keeping him breathing. 

Beverly sits by the bedside and stares at him, totally at sea.

“So, uh. ID'd the Chesapeake Ripper. Pretty sure it’s also the guy who framed you.” She pats the back of his hand delicately, avoiding the cannula. “Bet you figured it all out ages ago, huh?”

A nurse comes in, glances at Will’s chart, and makes a couple of adjustments to his IVs. He smiles pleasantly at Beverly. “Keep talking to him. Maybe he can hear you.”

“Yeah,” Beverly says flatly, and stays pointedly silent until the nurse excuses himself. Only when they’re alone does she speak to Will again. “Jesus, you can’t get good help these days, can you?”

Will does not respond. Beverly is not surprised.

“Well, anyway. We didn’t find Lecter yet, but there’s only so many places he can go.” She pauses and licks her lips. “Jack said you’ll probably wind up in an institution for a little while, even if we do catch him. No offence, buddy, but you do seem like you kind of need it. Maybe once your brain isn’t on fire it’ll be better.”

Will doesn’t twitch. His breathing doesn’t falter, slow and easy and regulated by a ventilator. Beverly sighs. 

“What the hell do I say at this point? ‘Get well soon,’ or something? Shit, I sound like a Hallmark card.” On an impulse she leans forward and kisses his cheek. “Whatever. Wake up soon, sleeping beauty.”

And that, of course, is when Will opens his eyes.


End file.
